


Overwhelming

by kolosundil



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors
Genre: AU, Cannibalism, Consensual Violence, Gore, M/M, Nightmares, all you squeamish folks move along, as always very cheerful, dunno how else to warn you guys, idk how exactly to call it, in any case, more of an alternate heresy thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-30
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-23 05:30:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2535935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kolosundil/pseuds/kolosundil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He vividly remembered the first time that Curze overwhelmed him. The darkness cradled him in cold arms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sevatar

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is based on various AU thoughts of the past, where Curze sought out his father's help instead of just blasting everything to hell and surrendering to fate. Sevatar is blind because of an attempt to sass the Emperor that permanently burned his retinas. Together, they become the backbone of the all new Imperial Inquisition, a far scarier and darker version, if that's possible.
> 
> It originated with me trying to entertain dear friend Kris on trip to Disneyland, and thus has the illustrious working title "The Disneyland Fic". Anyway, some of you were interested, so I published it. Wooo.

He remembered when he used to see in colours. His sight was weak in the light, but he could distinguish one colour from another. Red from blue, green from purple. Now, he could only see in shades of copper and gold. He could outline rooms; see faces, bodies, even armor, flickering from abstract shapes, to perfect detail, down to facial expression. They were usually faded, barely visible, unless he concentrated.

He had never “seen” anything cast a shadow, not before the first time he, now trained, had encountered his father. Panic had enveloped him. The darkness had returned. His father was not a black, absent silhouette, like the Silent Sisters and the Culexus were. He was enormous, covered his entire psychic field, cast a veil between him and everything else. True blindness felt terrible.

And yet, the presence of his sire caused him no fear. He could not see, but he could smell. He could inhale his scent clearer than ever before. Metal, old blood, inhuman hormones, inhuman scents that even he could not identify.  It hit him with the force of a power weapon, the effect enhanced by his lack of vision. He felt like dropping down, like letting the shadow bind itself around him, drown in the scent. He did not.

Then came the voice. Quiet, hissed, deep. “Are you fit to fight, Sevatar?” It said nothing more. There was no concern in it. There was nothing.

“No, actually. I think I’ll just take a long vacation, with your permission, sire.”

His Primarch had said nothing more. He could not see if he’d smiled. He probably hadn’t.

The darkness had backed away, slowly. He heard nothing on the cold floor. His Primarch was, as always, soundless.

“That’s a yes then?!”

* * *

 

He vividly remembered the first time that Curze overwhelmed him. The darkness cradled him in cold arms, yet his Primarch sat on his throne, unmoving. He had a vague understanding of where he physically was, but it was exactly that, vague, cloudy, disorienting. While other Primarchs illuminated, and dominated the space around them, his own… distorted it. Wore it like a cloak, made it obey him.

His scent was beating in his nostrils, washing over him in waves, the soft voice whispering commands for his ears only…

Sevatar could not bear it. He knelt, abruptly, and grabbed a hold of his Primarch’s leg.

Curze did not move, he stiffened entirely, and Sevatar could feel eyes on him, black pits, as black as his lord’s soul, that now threatened to suffocate him with its presence, its proximity.

He grinded against his sire’s leg, like a dog, like a begging whore, yet he felt no shame. Only need, to feel his skin against his own. He breathed hard, unseeing, black mirrors of Curze’s own eyes staring up at him. Sevatar’s lips were parted, saliva trailed out of his mouth, fizzing against his Primarch’s armor.

“Sire.. –Please-…”  he begged, and the next moment, there was a knee in his chest, throwing him on his back. He heard his lord’s cloak rustle as he stood, his boots click as he walked. He stopped, right in front of him.

Sevatar turned his head towards him. His arms trembled as he sat up, on his knees, his mouth still half-open.

“Your behavior disgusts me, First Captain. Shameful.”

Now, awareness flooded into Sevatar’s mind. What he had done… was unacceptable. Shame, pain, and arousal coloured his cheeks. Rubbing against his lord’s hard armour had not exactly been a good thought. His chest felt like something had cracked. It probably had. He bowed his head again, trembling.

“Leave,” was the command, and Sevatar followed it, for once without comment.


	2. Curze

In his nightmares, Curze did not kick his First Captain away. He did not tell him how disgusting his display was, for it was just as arousing. His armor, already tight against his body, now felt tighter, warmer. His fingers were twitching at the sight of his First Captain, needy, blind eyes staring up at him, mouth open in an o, saliva dripping from it.

He could identify lust. He couldn’t identify what for. But then Sevatar had moved, and he had not realized how. Now he knelt before him, between his parted legs. His hands ran up his thighs, feeling- Curze could feel the hands against his skin…

The Primarch grabbed him by the hair. Sevatar did not stop. He pressed his tongue against the codpiece, licked, touched, nuzzled.

All that Curze could look at was the constant movement of his captain’s hips, back and forth, hypnotizing him, his inquisitorial cloak shifting, fabric dominating his field of vision, drawing him in.

The next thing he could remember, was Sevatar on his hands and knees, legs spread apart, his ass facing him. He pleaded for him, in quiet, filthy Nostraman, begged to be fucked now, dry, hard, as long as it was his Primarch. His whispered, broken pleas buzzed in Curze’s ears, crippling any self-control he could have had.

Next thing he knew, he had pounced on his captain, armor gone, slammed inside him with all his force, making his hands and knees give in, dropping him flat on his stomach. All that came from him was a deep moan, one of approval.

He fucked his First Captain like it was the last thing he’d ever do. Blood soon coated his cock, dripped from it.

Curze slowly, deliberately ran his tongue up Sevatar’s back. His captain mewled. The sound was pathetic. His captain was... pathetic. He reached his shoulder, and sucked. Then, he bit. Sevatar screamed his approval, as a large, bloodied chunk of muscle and skin was ripped from him, and consumed. He tasted… good. Curze’s tastebuds were dulled, a necessity, after having grown up in the Nostramo Quintus slums, and human flesh had never been anything short of disgusting. But Sevatar’s…

The taste was right. He consumed the muscle, and bit into the shoulder again, sucking in more blood. The only reaction was Sevatar pushing against him violently, even as his hands ripped into his flesh with sharp, long nails, ribbons of skin pulled off him with wet sounds.

Curze’s First Captain screamed, and moaned, and cursed for more, using vocabulary that only Nostramo’s… finest, could conjure up.

A hand closed around his throat, to shut him up, make him quit his begging. He smashed his head against the hard floor, repeatedly, felt the throat cave in under his fingers. The screams of pleasure didn’t stop.

Curze’s other hand had torn at the captain’s torso. It dug within him, grasped at his insides. Sevatar cried out, blood and tears streaming down his face together. When Curze pulled his head back, one side of the skull was crushed, pieces of bone were protruding from a mangled mess, the eye hanging out of its socket. He leaned in, and bit into the bulb, pulling it into his mouth with a wet slurp.

The noise his First Captain made was indescribable. Pure ecstasy, so much, that he could not even feel guilty of the damage he was doing. He chewed, and swallowed, the juices spreading in his mouth. Too good. Curze leaned in, for a kiss, even as his hands scratched at the captain’s insides.

It was not a very good kiss, all teeth and bits of flesh, but Sevatar responded, allowed himself to be pulled back against his sire’s body, on his knees.

Curze pulled him back by the arm, savagely. The bone dislocated at the elbow, and flesh ripped. Sevatar leaned to him, even as his own limb was thrown aside. He let himself be lowered on his master’s cock, no hesitation, his pleasure undeniable.

It went on, and on, more intense with every second. Curze’s head hurt more with every deep, violent thrust, his ears about to burst, his temples pounding, eyes pressed into his skull, nose clamping down. He could not breathe. The sensation was all-too familiar, and still unwelcome. He drowned as the pain resonated with the sharp spikes of pleasure climbing up his spine. He loved this. He hated it. Both. But it did not cause him indifference.

Every moan of his First Captain made him thrust harder. His body bounced on him, limp and nearly lifeless, but completely willing. Accepting what he deserved. Craving it.

Sevatar would not stop screaming in his ears. He leaned up, asked for another kiss, and he got it.

“Father…” 

Curze awoke, pain piercing his skull, making him writhe on his bed. It trembled and creaked, and he clutched at sheets in horror. His body was out of his control, his reason fled.

When he came to, new images were in his mind. Images he was not sure had ever occurred. Ah. A vision. He concentrated, body arching off the bed as he breathed. An unnatural calm descended over him. The visions were clearer than ever before.

He sat up. There were no longer corpses in his bedroom. It was not… seemly, apparently. He had rooms for them, now. No longer were his silent, rotting guardians there to remind him of the existence of justice. It mattered little. As far as his father’s –curse him- Empire went, he was justice.

The Primarch reached a hand between his legs, to find wet, soiled sheets. He laughed, bitter and pained. –Justice-, indeed.

Disgusting.


	3. Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The much longer chapter 3 is much less explicit in nature. Sorry, friends of the smut and gore. I understand you well.

The nightmares would not stop. They did not stop, first every once in five nights, then three, then two… And then it spread to every single night. Curze stopped sleeping. Just like old times, was the thought constantly in his mind.

It had taken years upon years to learn to sleep. To shut down the nightmares of a future that did not come to pass, to keep his curse under lock and key. When the future had shifted, all those decades ago, and his visions had collapsed in on themselves, he sought out the Emperor. Unable to end his own life, mad with uncertainty and constant pain, he had ended up at the throne of Terra, like a stray dog returning to its owner.

To this day, he knew his father wanted to cast him away, to kill him, perhaps. But his shadow, that despicable human, had disagreed. He considered him useful, didn’t he. If he could be tamed…

And so it had been done. It had taken years to discipline him, pain beyond imagination. Curze, to this day, didn’t know why or how he endured it.

And now, it was all in danger of being blown apart, because… Because of the most disgusting of desires, desires that he had mocked and despised his whole life. Sevatar… Curse him. He should have had him put down, the day he lost his vision, like a no-good horse.

He… haunted his dreams, every time subtly different, as if he tried out new ways to be violent. One time he had his face in Sevatar’s opened stomach, consuming innards, his head drenched in his First Captain’s blood and juices, and Sevatar was moaning, screaming, pulling him in further by the shoulders, hands clutching at his hair in nothing but adoration.

Another, where he had a hold of his head and pushed him down his cock, all the way to the hilt, watching as he choked to death, but Sevatar’s hands were limp at his sides, his eyes were closed, he followed his father’s lead blindly.

And every single one of them ended in the same maddening word.

_“Father…”_

As if it tried to remind him just how disgusting, how unnatural his desire was, right before driving him over the edge.

Walking the narrow, stuffy corridors of the Nightfall made him feel at home. There was nothing that could escape him, not here, no matter how it tried to break away. From here, he could hear every sound on the ship, every scream from the interrogation rooms, every dirty noise, every conversation. He did not bother to pick out the details, sincerely uninterested in what the humans and… his sons were doing. His armored bodyglove clung to him. He was sweating, and it made him feel severely unclean.

Becoming the Lord Inquisitor had changed many things about him, and one of them was hygiene. His new condition did not train him in the disgusting frivolity his brothers exercised, but it had given him a new obsession with keeping himself spotless.

The irony in it, that he dyed his hands in the blood of his father’s enemies, yet he was always unblemished, was too much to resist.  He bathed every single day, rubbing his skin raw. The habit of it gave some sense of time.

When he reached the bridge, and sat down, Sevatar was already there. He wanted nothing but to grab him by the throat, to order him to stop, to kill him slowly, for putting all he had built in danger. Curze looked straight at him, heard his heartbeat quicken, his breath catch for that miniscule section of time, his exhale as he took his place on the command throne. To anyone that wasn't a being with Curze's acuity, this would be completely unnoticeable. But to him, it was tantalizing.

Giving orders and deciding on the Nightfall’s next course of action was as mechanical as it was unsatisfying. He never was a prudent man; he never cut corners on his punishments in fear of repercussions or consequences. Injustice was just that. Sin was absolute. So whatever planet was next in the Nightfall’s list was the same to him. It was all a matter for his advisors and second-in-command to decide. His role was to approve or not.

He disliked the lack of direct action against and involvement with the very scum he punished. But there were those few precious times when a situation was grave enough for him to make planetfall. This would likely be one of them. He heard the underlying excitement below his First Captain’s languid, sarcastic drawl, the quiet intake of breath when Curze agreed to the notion.

Once it was over, the Lord Inquisitor stood up, and began to leave the bridge, head held high, shoulders straight. He had been shown how to give off dignity, how to make his despair into steel and his pain into a pleasant hum at the back of his head. How could he… How could he blow it all into nothingness, over… Over Sevatar and his desire.

He stopped at the doors of the bridge, not bothering to turn around, as the one he cared to speak to did not see him. “Shipmaster, the rest is left to you. First Captain, follow.”

A suspicion had crawled into his mind lately, one that he didn’t want to consider, but was vaguely comforting. That this was Sevatar’s doing. His psychic potential was sneaking in his dreams, projecting his needs onto him. In all accounts, it made perfect sense. The recurring theme, the willingness of his First Captain, the… unnerving realism of sensation… It was all Sevatar’s fault, consciously or not.

But that would mean his First Captain truly desired him. An impossibility, an illusion created by the strong gene bonds between them, surely. But Curze was adamant, that whatever it was, it couldn’t go on any further.

Sevatar followed behind him soundlessly, obedient and expectant, like a cat behind its owner on the way to dinner.

They eventually reached the Primarch’s quarters, which he preferred without windows to the warp, and far more austere than most of his brothers. A simple study, a bedroom, a bath. Personal details did not matter, especially when his preferred decoration was human viscera.

“Sire,” Sevatar tried, after a long silence of Curze watching him passively. This creature was the cause of his trouble.

The Primarch grunted questioningly in reply, not dignifying the acknowledgement with words.

“Did I do something?” he tried again, informal and straightforward, as it had always been. The reason Sev was where he was.

“Perhaps,” was Curze’s hissed, nearly gentle reply. “If you have, then I need not explain it to you.”

“That’s enlightening of you, sire,” Sevatar said easily. Curze saw the tiniest movements of his body, how it yearned to lean to something and not just stand there. What an… awkward situation.

“Sevatar..” came Curze’s voice again, a soft, yet sharp warning. In all his years, he had never once needed to raise his voice to threaten.

Sev was, of course, the exception, for he was impossible to threaten. His devotion to him was, beyond all expectations, absolute, and intimidating him was organically unachievable. “Sire?”

Curze considered how to pull it out of him. He could just straight up ask, but that was not in any way called for. Too… unsubtle. Too big a risk. “Do you dream, First Captain of mine?” It came out as a sneer, almost.

There it was. Sevatar stiffened, visibly so, his unseeing gaze glued to the wall in front of him. “Occassionally, sire.”

“What of, pray tell…?” Curze went on, approaching his First Captain with the terrible ease of an apex predator.

And it always puzzled and annoyed him, how Sevatar never acted like prey. He stood his ground, but Curze heard his knee joints shift. The First Captain’s next words drew a shiver from the Primarch. “..Don’t you already know, Father?”

There was a long silence. So, he –knew-. He had caused this, just as Curze had suspected. Yet he sounded almost… accusing. As if it was his fault. Preposterous. He took another step closer. “Shameful. Your base desires, projected onto your Primarch.”

“…Mine, sire?”

“…Of course.” Who else’s?

There was a long, long silence. What could one even say, in this situation? Sevatar didn’t seem to want to say anything, and Curze had too many questions he’d rather choke himself than ask. “..This cannot continue.”

Sevatar nodded dutifully. “Right you are, sire.”

“So stop it.”

Another moment of silence. He heard Sevatar’s tongue click in his mouth, before he spoke quietly. “I can’t. It is not conscious, it is not my fault.”

Curze was very dissatisfied with this answer. He slid closer faster than human and posthuman eyes both, and grabbed his First Captain by the neck, lifting him effortlessly in the air, even in full armor. Unseeing blackness greeted him as he looked into his face for any sign of a lie. “…This is not a request, First Captain. I will not let your… depravity disturb me any longer.”

Sevatar’s shiver was felt, even through his armor. “Not.. My.. Fault…” he choked out, but didn’t dare to touch his father, even now.

The Primarch’s stare was unrelenting. Sevatar could feel it, even without his own eyes, and his sixth sense overwhelmed by the Primarch’s presence. He breathed out shakily, shallow, and not just because of the hold on his neck.

He could hear his heartbeat, faster than before, smell his skin, see the details of his face, his parted lips, heaving chest... So very… tempting to approach. Curze let go of his throat immediately after the thought formed. Sevatar dropped to his knees with a loud clang.

“I… want you.” His voice came out ragged and coarse, but Curze could detect no lie. “Nothing that I do.. Will change that, sire..”

Sevatar looked up at him, with his empty gaze. It unnerved him. The certainty with which he said those words, the ignorance of what they meant… “…You are a liar and a fool if you consider it so.”

“..Father…” he said, voice nearly pleading. “I am no liar. A fool probably, but no liar.”

Curze knelt down, to one knee, following his son, still much higher than his eye level. His fingers, covered in the tough material of the bodyglove grasped his chin, examining closely. ..A fool, indeed. But he shivered under his touch, and it didn’t seem to be in fear. “You are being honest. You… Desire this.”

“Yes,” Sevatar hissed at him, not daring to move forward, not wanting to pull back. “I yearn for you, sire,” he said, unable to resist spelling it out like to a child.

For that, Sevatar got a smack that had him flat on the ground. And then Curze was on him, clasping him by the throat, and leaning down, his hair framing his face like a long, dark curtain. He leaned down, and closed his lips over Sev’s.

It was… Pathetic, if he was completely honest with himself. Underwhelming. He considered it would be something more interesting, but it was simply.. Wet. And close. Sevatar’s tongue slid out of his mouth, to lick at him, and he pulled back at the intrusion immediately. “Stop that.”

Sevatar stared up at him with empty eyes, unsure of what to say, or how to go about this. All he had was the sensation of his father’s lips on his own, threatening to drown him into madness. He dared to lift a gauntleted hand towards him. It was caught in Curze’s grip immediately.

He was grateful his First Captain couldn’t see the disbelief and uncertainty in his expression. The mouth was an unattractive concept. But the neck… The neck was warm, and held Sevatar’s smell without being too wet, and… His pulse. He leaned down, pressing his lips to it, parted, running down. Filed teeth scraped lightly at the skin, and the next thing he knew was Sevatar’s armored fist closing around his shoulder, and that… That sound. Curze repeated his movement, his free hand grasping Sevatar’s other wrist, and pushing it away from himself. “Do not touch me unless I allow it.”

Protest bubbled in Sevatar’s neck, before dying away when his pauldrons were unlocked, and tossed away, breastplate following. His father seemed to struggle with it, somewhat. He was too tall to both sit on Sev and bend down to his neck. He fumbled lower, removing all necessary plate.

He had a theoretical knowledge of what happened… But the dreams were unclear. He paused, staring down at Sevatar in his bodyglove, the armor removed from his body in a haste.

“…Sire?” came Sevatar’s trembling voice.

“Mm?” he growled quietly.

“Should I help?”

“No.” Curze answered plainly. He couldn’t just.. Ask for help.  Both admit a weakness and give away the fact that he too desired what was happening.  Perhaps he did. But admitting it was an entirely different thing.

Sevatar remained silent. He wet his lips. His sire could probably spot that he was already hard. Sev felt him lean down, felt his armored hands touch his body. He whimpered.

There was confusion in Curze’s movements. If he felt the same as Sevatar, there was no deciphering it. Sevatar felt fear, a fear that cut into his soul like a frosty wind. What if he was being mocked? What if his sire was playing a cruel, terrible joke? It usually did not scare him, but he was usually not the butt of it.

Curze was warm. He leaned down, and placed his parted lips on the other’s neck again. Sevatar’s breath had gone mad, his heartbeat so loud, that a part of Curze wished to silence it. The First Captain shivered, and his hand found the back of his Primarch’s neck.

The Lord of the Night reacted. He hissed, and the touch on Sevatar’s neck turned to a punishing bite on his shoulder.

Sevatar was crushed under his weight, his flesh instantly pierced by sharp teeth. He cried out in sheer joy, desire, pleasure, pain. Fear was gone now. “Father…” he whispered in adoration, as the blackness behind his eyes consumed him.

Curze tasted blood, felt him tense, heard… Heard that cry. Then that word. That _cursed_ word, said just like he’d dreamt of it. Thoughts drew themselves back, doubt, disgust and unfamiliarity, as he leaned in and kissed his First Captain again, all teeth and blood and spit.


End file.
